Chapter 6


Three days after the journey to Bayeux, I started on a much longer
one–to the Eternal City. This journey taught me the vanity of all that
passes away. Nevertheless I saw splendid monuments; I studied the
countless wonders of art and religion; and better than all, I trod the
very ground the Holy Apostles had trodden–the ground watered by the
blood of martyrs–and my soul grew by contact with these holy things.

I was delighted to go to Rome; but I could quite understand people
crediting Papa with the hope that in this way I should be brought to
change my mind about the religious life. It might certainly have upset
a vocation that was not very strong.

To begin with, Celine and I found ourselves in the company of many
distinguished people. In fact, there were scarcely any others in the
pilgrimage; but, far from being dazzled thereby, titles seemed to us
but a ”vapour of smoke,” [49] and I understood the words of the
Imitation: ”Be not solicitous for the shadow of a great name.” [50] I
understood that true greatness is not found in a name but in the soul.
The Prophet Isaias tells us: ”The Lord shall call His servants by
another name,” [51] and we read in St. John: ”To him that overcometh I
will give a white counter, and on the counter a new name written which
no man knoweth but he that receiveth it.” [52] In Heaven, therefore, we
shall know our titles of nobility, and ”then shall every man have
praise from God,” [53] and he who on earth chose to be poorest and
least known for love of his Saviour, he will be the first, the noblest,
and the richest.

The second thing I learnt had to do with Priests. Up to this time I had
not understood the chief aim of the Carmelite Reform. To pray for
sinners delighted me; to pray for Priests, whose souls seemed pure as
crystal, that indeed astonished me. But in Italy I realised my
vocation, and even so long a journey was a small price to pay for such
valuable knowledge. During that month I met with many holy Priests, and
yet I saw that even though the sublime dignity of Priesthood raises
them higher than the Angels, they are still but weak and imperfect men.
And so if holy Priests, whom Our Lord in the Gospel calls the salt of
the earth, have need of our prayers, what must we think of the
lukewarm? Has not Our Lord said: ”If the salt lose its savour wherewith
shall it be salted?” [54] Oh, dear Mother, how beautiful is our
vocation! We Carmelites are called to preserve ”the salt of the earth.”
We offer our prayers and sacrifices for the apostles of the Lord; we
ourselves ought to be their apostles, while they, by word and example,
are preaching the Gospel to our brethren. Have we not a glorious
mission to fulfill? But I must say no more, for I feel that on this
subject my pen would run on for ever.

Now let me describe my journey in some detail. At three o’clock in the
morning of November 4, we passed through the silent streets. Lisieux
still lay shrouded in the darkness of night. I felt that I was going
out into the unknown, and that great things were awaiting me in Rome.
When we reached Paris, Papa took us to see all the sights. For me there
was but one–Our Lady of Victories. I can never tell you what I felt at
her shrine; the graces Our Lady granted me were like those of my First
Communion Day. I was filled with peace and happiness. In this holy spot
the Blessed Virgin, my Mother, told me plainly that it was really she
who had smiled on me and cured me. With intense fervour I entreated her
to keep me always, and to realise my heart’s desire by hiding me under
her spotless mantle, and I also asked her to remove from me every
occasion of sin.

I was well aware that during this journey I should come across things
that might disturb me; knowing nothing of evil, I feared I might
discover it. As yet I had not experienced that ”to the pure all things
are pure,” [55] that a simple and upright soul does not see evil in
anything, because evil only exists in impure hearts and not in
inanimate objects. I prayed specially to St. Joseph to watch over me;
from my childhood, devotion to him has been interwoven with my love for
our Blessed Lady. Every day I said the prayer beginning: ”St. Joseph,
Father and Protector of Virgins” . . . so I felt I was well protected
and quite safe from danger.

We left Paris on November 7, after our solemn Consecration to the
Sacred Heart in the Basilica of Montmartre. [56] Each compartment of
the train was named after a Saint, and the selection was made in honour
of some Priest occupying it–his own patron or that of his parish being
chosen. But in the presence of all the pilgrims our compartment was
named after St. Martin! My Father, deeply touched by this compliment,
went at once to thank Mgr. Legoux, Vicar-General of Coutances and
director of the pilgrimage. From this onwards he was often called
”Monsieur Saint Martin.”

Father Reverony watched my behaviour closely. I could tell that he was
doing so; at table, if I were not opposite to him, he would lean
forward to look at me and listen to what I was saying. I think he must
have been satisfied with his investigations, for, towards the end of
the journey, he seemed more favourably disposed. I say towards the end,
for in Rome he was far from being my advocate, as I will tell you
presently. Still I would not have it thought he deceived me in any way
by falling short of the good will he had shown at Bayeux. On the
contrary, I am sure that he always felt kindly towards me, and that if
he opposed my wishes it was only to put me to the test.

On our way into Italy we passed through Switzerland, with its high
mountains, their snowy peaks lost in the clouds, its rushing torrents,
and its deep valleys filled with giant ferns and purple heather. Great
good was wrought in my soul by these beauties of nature so abundantly
scattered abroad. They lifted it to Him Who had been pleased to lavish
such masterpieces upon this transient earth.

Sometimes we were high up the mountain side, while at our feet an
unfathomable abyss seemed ready to engulf us. A little later we were
passing through a charming village with its cottages and graceful
belfry, above which light fleecy clouds floated lazily. Farther on a
great lake with its blue waters, so calm and clear, would blend with
the glowing splendour of the setting sun. I cannot tell you how deeply
I was impressed with this scenery so full of poetry and grandeur. It
was a foretaste of the wonders of Heaven. Then the thought of religious
life would come before me, as it really is, with its constraints and
its little daily sacrifices made in secret. I understood how easily one
might become wrapped in self and forget the sublime end of one’s
vocation, and I thought: ”Later on, when the time of trial comes, when
I am enclosed in the Carmel and shall only be able to see a little bit
of sky, I will remember this day and it will encourage me. I will make
light of my own small interests by thinking of the greatness and
majesty of God; I will love Him alone, and will not be so foolish as to
attach myself to the fleeting trifles of this world, now that my heart
has had a glimpse of what is reserved for those who love Him.”

After having contemplated the works of God, I turned next to admire
those of His creatures. Milan was the first Italian town we visited,
and we carefully studied its Cathedral of white marble, adorned with
countless statues. Celine and I left the timid ones, who hid their
faces in fear after climbing to the first stage, and, following the
bolder pilgrims, we reached the top, from whence we viewed the city
below. When we came down we started on the first of our expeditions;
these lasted the whole month of the pilgrimage, and quite cured me of a
desire to be always lazily riding in a carriage.

The ”Campo Santo” [57] charmed us. The whole vast enclosure is covered
with marble statues, so exquisitely carved as to be life-like, and
placed with an apparent negligence that only enhances their charm. You
feel almost tempted to console the imaginary personages that surround
you, their expression so exactly portrays a calm and Christian sorrow.
And what works of art! Here is a child putting flowers on its father’s
grave–one forgets how solid is marble–the delicate petals appear to
slip through its fingers. Sometimes the light veils of the widows, and
the ribbons of the young girls, seem floating on the breeze.

We could not find words to express our admiration, but an old gentleman
who followed us everywhere–regretting no doubt his inability to share
our sentiments–said in a tone of ill-temper: ”Oh, what enthusiasts
these French people are!” and yet he also was French. I think the poor
man would have done better to stay at home. Instead of enjoying the
journey he was always grumbling: nothing pleased him, neither cities,
hotels, people, nor anything else. My Father, whose disposition was the
exact opposite, was quite content, no matter what happened, and tried
to cheer our friend, offering him his place in the carriage or
elsewhere, and with his wonted goodness encouraging him to look on the
bright side of things. But nothing could cheer him. How many different
kinds of people we saw and how interesting it is to study the world
when one is just about to leave it!

In Venice the scene changed completely. Instead of the bustle of a
large city, silence reigned, broken only by the lapping of the waters
and the cries of the gondoliers as they plied their oars; it is a city
full of charm but full of sadness. Even the Palace of the Doges,
splendid though it be, is sad; we walked through halls whose vaulted
roofs have long since ceased to re-echo the voices of the governors in
their sentences of life and death. Its dark dungeons are no longer a
living tomb for unfortunate prisoners to pine within.

While visiting these dreadful prisons I fancied myself in the times of
the martyrs, and gladly would I have chosen this sombre abode for my
dwelling if there had been any question of confessing my faith.
Presently the guide’s voice roused me from my reverie, and I crossed
the ”Bridge of Sighs,” so called because of the sighs uttered by the
wretched prisoners as they passed from their dungeons to sentence and
to death. After leaving Venice we visited Padua and there venerated the
relic of St. Anthony’s tongue; then Bologna, where St. Catherine’s body
rests. Her face still bears the impress of the kiss bestowed on her by
the Infant Jesus.

I was indeed happy when on the way to Loreto. Our Lady had chosen an
ideal spot in which to place her Holy House. Everything is poor,
simple, and primitive; the women still wear the graceful dress of the
country and have not, as in the large towns, adopted the modern Paris
fashions. I found Loreto enchanting. And what shall I say of the Holy
House? I was overwhelmed with emotion when I realised that I was under
the very roof that had sheltered the Holy Family. I gazed on the same
walls Our Lord had looked on. I trod the ground once moistened with the
sweat of St. Joseph’s toil, and saw the little chamber of the
Annunciation, where the Blessed Virgin Mary held Jesus in her arms
after she had borne Him there in her virginal womb. I even put my
Rosary into the little porringer used by the Divine Child. How sweet
those memories!

But our greatest joy was to receive Jesus in His own House, and thus
become His living temple in the very place which He had honoured by His
Divine Presence. According to Roman custom the Blessed Sacrament is
reserved at one Altar in each Church, and there only is it given to the
faithful. At Loreto this Altar was in the Basilica–which is built
round the Holy House, enclosing it as a precious stone might be
enclosed in a casket of white marble. The exterior mattered little to
us, it was in the diamond itself that we wished to receive the Bread of
Angels. My Father, with his habitual gentleness, followed the other
pilgrims, but his daughters, less easily satisfied, went towards the
Holy House.

God favoured us, for a Priest was on the point of celebrating Mass; we
told him of our great wish, and he immediately asked for two hosts,
which he placed on the paten. You may picture, dear Mother, the
ecstatic happiness of that Communion; no words can describe it. What
will be our joy when we communicate eternally in the dwelling of the
King of Heaven? It will be undimmed by the grief of parting, and will
know no end. His House will be ours for all eternity, and there will be
no need to covet fragments from the walls hallowed by the Divine
Presence. He will not give us His earthly Home–He only shows it to us
to make us love poverty and the hidden life. What He has in store for
us is the Palace of His Glory, where we shall no longer see Him veiled
under the form of a child or the appearance of bread, but as He is, in
the brightness of His Infinite Beauty.

Now I am going to tell you about Rome–Rome, where I thought to find
comfort and where I found the cross. It was night when we arrived. I
was asleep, and was awakened by the porters calling: ”Roma!” The
pilgrims caught up the cry and repeated: ”Roma, Roma!” Then I knew that
it was not a dream, I was really in Rome!

Our first day, and perhaps the most enjoyable, was spent outside the
walls. There, everything retains its stamp of antiquity, whilst in
Rome, with its hotels and shops, one might fancy oneself in Paris. This
drive in the Roman Campagna has left a specially delightful impression
on my mind.

How shall I describe the feelings which thrilled me when I gazed on the
Coliseum? At last I saw the arena where so many Martyrs had shed their
blood for Christ. My first impulse was to kiss the ground sanctified by
their glorious combats. But what a disappointment! The soil has been
raised, and the real arena is now buried at the depth of about
twenty-six feet.

As the result of excavations the centre is nothing but a mass of
rubbish, and an insurmountable barrier guards the entrance; in any case
no one dare penetrate into the midst of these dangerous ruins. But was
it possible to be in Rome and not go down to the real Coliseum? No,
indeed! And I no longer listened to the guide’s explanations: one
thought only filled my mind–I must reach the arena.

We are told in the Gospel that St. Mary Magdalen remained close to the
Sepulchre and stooped down constantly to look in; she was rewarded by
seeing two Angels. So, like her, I kept stooping down and I saw, not
two Angels, but what I was in search of. I uttered a cry of joy and
called out to my sister: ”Come, follow me, we shall be able to get
through.” We hurried on at once, scrambling over the ruins which
crumbled under our feet. Papa, aghast at our boldness, called out to
us, but we did not hear.

As the warriors of old felt their courage grow in face of peril, so our
joy increased in proportion to the fatigue and danger we had to face to
attain the object of our desires. Celine, more foreseeing than I, had
listened to the guide. She remembered that he had pointed out a
particular stone marked with a cross, and had told us it was the place
where the Martyrs had fought the good fight. She set to work to find
it, and having done so we threw ourselves on our knees on this sacred
ground. Our souls united in one and the same prayer. My heart beat
violently when I pressed my lips to the dust reddened with the blood of
the early Christians. I begged for the grace to be a martyr for Jesus,
and I felt in the depths of my heart that my prayer was heard. All this
took but a short time. After collecting some stones we approached the
walls once more to face the danger. We were so happy that Papa had not
the heart to scold us, and I could see that he was proud of our

From the Coliseum we went to the Catacombs, and there Celine and I laid
ourselves down in what had once been the tomb of St. Cecilia, and took
some of the earth sanctified by her holy remains. Before our journey to
Rome I had not felt any special devotion to St. Cecilia, but on
visiting the house where she was martyred, and hearing her proclaimed
”Queen of harmony”–because of the sweet song she sang in her heart to
her Divine Spouse–I felt more than devotion towards her, it was real
love as for a friend. She became my chosen patroness, and the keeper of
all my secrets; her abandonment to God and her boundless confidence
delighted me beyond measure. They were so great that they enabled her
to make souls pure which had never till then desired aught but earthly

St. Cecilia is like the Spouse in the Canticles. I find in her the
Scriptural ”choir in an armed camp.” [58] Her life was one melodious
song in the midst of the greatest trials; and this is not strange,
because we read that ”the Book of the Holy Gospels lay ever on her
heart,” [59] while in her heart reposed the Spouse of Virgins.

Our visit to the Church of St. Agnes was also very delightful. I tried,
but without success, to obtain a relic to take back to my little
Mother, Sister Agnes of Jesus. Men refused me, but God Himself came to
my aid: a little bit of red marble, from an ancient mosaic dating back
to the time of the sweet martyr, fell as my feet. Was this not
touching? St. Agnes herself gave me a keepsake from her house.

We spent six days in visiting the great wonders in Rome, and on the
seventh saw the greatest of all–Leo XIII. I longed for, yet dreaded,
that day, for on it depended my vocation. I had received no answer from
the Bishop of Bayeux, and so the Holy Father’s permission was my one
and only hope. But in order to obtain this permission I had first to
ask it. The mere thought made me tremble, for I must dare speak to the
Pope, and that, in presence of many Cardinals, Archbishops, and

On Sunday morning, November 20, we went to the Vatican, and were taken
to the Pope’s private chapel. At eight o’clock we assisted at his Mass,
during which his fervent piety, worthy of the Vicar of Christ, gave
evidence that he was in truth the ”Holy Father.”

The Gospel for that day contained these touching words: ”Fear not,
little flock, for it hath pleased your Father to give you a Kingdom.”
[60] My heart was filled with perfect confidence. No, I would not fear,
I would trust that the Kingdom of the Carmel would soon be mine. I did
not think of those other words of Our Lord: ”I dispose to you, as my
Father hath disposed to Me, a Kingdom.” [61] That is to say, I will
give you crosses and trials, and thus will you become worthy to possess
My Kingdom. If you desire to sit on His right hand you must drink the
chalice which He has drunk Himself. [62] ”Ought not Christ to have
suffered these things, and so to enter into His glory?” [63]

A Mass of thanksgiving followed, and then the audience began. Leo XIII,
whose cassock and cape were of white, was seated on a raised chair, and
round him were grouped various dignitaries of the church. According to
custom each visitor knelt in turn and kissed, first the foot and next
the hand of the venerable Pontiff, and finally received his blessing;
then two of the Noble Guard signed to the pilgrim that he must rise and
pass on to the adjoining room to make way for those who followed.

No one uttered a word, but I was firmly determined to speak, when
suddenly the Vicar-General of Bayeux, Father Reverony, who was standing
at the Pope’s right hand, told us in a loud voice that he absolutely
forbade anyone to address the Holy Father. My heart beat fast. I turned
to Celine, mutely inquiring what I should do. ”Speak!” she said.

The next moment I found myself on my knees before the Holy Father. I
kissed his foot and he held out his hand; then raising my eyes, which
were filled with tears, I said entreatingly: ”Holy Father, I have a
great favour to ask you.” At once he bent towards me till his face
almost touched mine, and his piercing black eyes seemed to read my very
soul. ”Holy Father,” I repeated, ”in honour of your jubilee, will you
allow me to enter the Carmel when I am fifteen?”

The Vicar-General, surprised and displeased, said quickly: ”Holy
Father, this is a child who desires to become a Carmelite, but the
Superiors of the Carmel are looking into the matter.” ”Well, my child,”
said His Holiness, ”do whatever the Superiors decide.” Clasping my
hands and resting them on his knee, I made a final effort: ”Holy
Father, if only you say ‘yes,’ everyone else would agree.”

He looked at me fixedly and said clearly and emphatically: ”Well, well!
You will enter if it is God’s Will.” I was going to speak again, when
the Noble Guards motioned to me. As I paid little attention they came
forward, the Vicar-General with them, for I was still kneeling before
the Pope with my hands resting on his knee. Just as I was forced to
rise, the dear Holy Father gently placed his hand on my lips, then
lifted it to bless me, letting his eyes follow me for quite a long

My Father was much distressed to find me coming from the audience in
tears; he had passed out before me, and so did not know anything about
my request. The Vicar-General had shown him unusual kindness,
presenting him to Leo XIII as the father of two Carmelites. The
Sovereign Pontiff, as a special sign of benevolence, had placed his
hand on his head, thus appearing in the name of Christ Himself to mark
him with a mysterious seal. But now that this father of four Carmelites
is in Heaven, it is no longer the hand of Christ’s Vicar which rests on
his brow, prophesying his martyrdom: it is the hand of the Spouse of
Virgins, of the King of Heaven; and this Divine Hand will never be
taken away from the head which it has blessed.

This trial was indeed a heavy one, but I must admit that in spite of my
tears I felt a deep inward peace, for I had made every effort in my
power to respond to the appeal of my Divine Master. This peace,
however, dwelt in the depths of my soul–on the surface all was
bitterness; and Jesus was silent–absent it would seem, for nothing
revealed that He was there.

On that day, too, the sun dared not shine, and the beautiful blue sky
of Italy, hidden by dark clouds, mingled its tears with mine. All was
at an end. My journey had no further charm for me since it had failed
in its object. It is true the Holy Father’s words: ”You will enter if
it is God’s Will,” should have consoled me, they were indeed a
prophecy. In spite of all these obstacles, what God in His goodness
willed, has come to pass. He has not allowed His creatures to do what
they will but only what He wills. Sometime before this took place I had
offered myself to the Child Jesus to be His little plaything. I told
Him not to treat me like one of those precious toys which children only
look at and dare not touch, but to treat me like a little ball of no
value, that could be thrown on the ground, kicked about, pierced, left
in a corner, or pressed to His Heart just as it might please Him. In a
word I wished to amuse the Holy child and to let Him play with me as He
fancied. Here indeed He was answering my prayer. In Rome Jesus pierced
His little plaything. He wanted to see what was inside . . . and when
satisfied, He let it drop and went to sleep. What was He doing during
His sweet slumber, and what became of the ball thus cast on one side?
He dreamed that He was still at play, that He took it up or threw it
down, that He rolled it far away, but at last He pressed it to His
Heart, nor did He allow it again to slip from His tiny Hand. Dear
Mother, you can imagine the sadness of the little ball lying neglected
on the ground! And yet it continued to hope against hope.

After our audience my Father went to call on Brother Simeon–the
founder and director of St. Joseph’s College–and there he met Father
Reverony. He reproached him gently for not having helped me in my
difficult task, and told the whole story to Brother Simeon. The good
old man listened with much interest and even made notes, saying with
evident feeling: ”This kind of thing is not seen in Italy.”

The next day we started for Naples and Pompeii. Vesuvius did us the
honour of emitting from its crater a thick volume of smoke, accompanied
by numerous loud reports. The traces of the devastation of Pompeii are
terrifying. They show forth the power of God: ”He looketh upon the
earth, and maketh it tremble; He toucheth the mountains and they

I should like to have wandered alone among its ruins, meditating on the
instability of human things, but such solitude was not to be thought

At Naples we made an expedition to the monastery of San Martino; it
crowns a high hill overlooking the whole city. On the way back the
horses took the bit in their teeth, and it is solely to our Guardian
Angels that I attribute our safe return to the splendid hotel. This
word ”splendid” is not too strong to describe it; in fact during the
whole journey we stayed only at the most expansive hotels. I had never
been surrounded by such luxury, but it is indeed a true saying that
riches do not make happiness. I should have been a thousand times more
contented under a thatched room, with the hope of entering the Carmel,
than I was amid marble staircases, gilded ceilings, and silken
hangings, with my heart full of sorrow.

I realised thoroughly that joy is not found in the things which
surround us, but lives only in the soul. One could possess it as well
in an obscure prison as in the palace of a king. And so now I am
happier at the Carmel, in the midst of trials within and without, than
I was in the world where I had everything I wanted, and, above all, the
joys of a happy home.

Although I felt heavy of heart, outwardly I was as usual, for I thought
no one had any knowledge of my petition to the Pope. I was mistaken.
One day, when the other pilgrims had gone to the refreshment-room and
Celine and I were alone, Mgr. Legoux came to the door of the carriage.
He looked at me attentively and smiling said: ”Well, and how is our
little Carmelite?” This showed me that my secret was known to all the
pilgrims, and I gathered it, too, from their kindly looks; but happily
no one spoke to me on the subject.

At Assisi I had a little adventure. While visiting the places
sanctified by the virtues of St. Francis and St. Clare I lost the
buckle of my belt in the monastery. It took me some time to find and
put it back in place, and when I reached the door all the carriages had
started except one; that belonged to the Vicar-General of Bayeux!
Should I run after those which were no longer in sight and so perhaps
miss the train, or should I beg for a seat in the carriage of Father
Reverony? I decided that this was the wiser plan.

I tried to hide my extreme embarrassment and explained things. He was
placed in a difficulty himself, for all the seats were occupied, but
one of the party promptly gave me his place and sat by the driver. I
felt like a squirrel caught in a snare. I was ill at ease in the midst
of these great people, and I had to sit face to face with the most
formidable of all. He was exceedingly kind, however, and now and then
interrupted his conversation to talk to me about the Carmel and promise
that he would do all in his power to realise my desire of entering at
fifteen. This meeting was like balm to my wounds, though it did not
prevent me from suffering. I had now lost all trust in creatures and
could only lean on God Himself.

And yet my distress did not hinder me from taking a deep interest in
the holy places we visited. In Florence we saw the shrine of St. Mary
Magdalen of Pazzi, in the choir of the Carmelite Church. All the
pilgrims wanted to touch the Saint’s tomb with their Rosaries, but my
hand was the only one small enough to pass through the grating. So I
was deputed for this important and lengthy task, and I did it with

It was not the first time I had obtained special favours. One day, at
Santa Croce, in Rome, we venerated the relics of the True Cross,
together with two of the Thorns, and one of the Sacred Nails. I wanted
to examine them closely, so I remained behind, and when the monk in
charge was going to replace them on the Altar, I asked if I might touch
the precious treasures. He said I might do so, but was doubtful if I
should succeed; however, I put my little finger into one of the
openings of the reliquary and was able to touch the Sacred Nail once
hallowed by the Blood of Our Saviour. You see I behaved towards Him
like a child who thinks it may do as it pleases and looks on its
Father’s treasures as its own.

Having passed through Pisa and Genoa we came back to France by one of
the loveliest routes. At times we were close to the sea, and one day
during a storm it seemed as though the waves would reach the train.
Farther on we travelled through plains covered with orange trees,
olives, and feathery palms, while at night the numerous seaports
twinkled with lights, and stars came out in the deep blue sky. But I
watched the fairy picture fade away from my eyes without any regret–my
heart was set elsewhere.

My Father proposed to take me to Jerusalem, but in spite of the natural
wish I had to visit the places sanctified by Our Lord’s Footsteps, I
was weary of earthly pilgrimages and only longed for the beauties of
Heaven. In order to win these beauties for souls I wanted to become a
prisoner as quickly as possible. I felt that I must suffer and struggle
still more before the gates of my blessed prison would open; yet my
trust in God did not grow less, and I still hoped to enter at

We had hardly reached home when I paid a visit to the Carmel. You must
remember well that interview, dear Mother. I left myself entirely in
your hands, for I had exhausted all my resources. You told me to write
to the Bishop and remind him of his promise. I obeyed at once, and as
soon as my letter was posted I felt I should obtain the coveted
permission without any delay. Alas! each day brought fresh
disappointments. The beautiful feast of Christmas dawned; still Jesus
slept. He left His little ball on the ground without even glancing that

This was indeed a sore trial, but Our Lord, Whose Heart is always
watching, taught me that He granted miracles to those whose faith is
small as a grain of mustard seed, in the hope of strengthening this
slender faith; whilst for His intimate friends, for His Mother, He did
not work miracles till He had proved their faith. Did He not permit
Lazarus to die even though Mary and Martha had sent word that he was
sick? And at the marriage feast of Cana, when Our Lady asked her Divine
Son to aid the master of the house, did He not answer that His hour had
not yet come? But after the trial what a reward! Water is changed into
wine, and Lazarus rises from the dead. In this way did my Beloved act
with His little Therese; after He had tried her for a long time He
granted all her desires.

For my New Year’s gift of 1888, Jesus again gave me His Cross. You told
me, dear Mother, that you had had the Bishop’s answer since December
28, the feast of Holy Innocents; that he authorised my immediate entry
into the Carmel, but that nevertheless you had decided not to open its
doors till after Lent. I could not restrain my tears at the thought of
such a long delay. This trial affected me in a special manner, for I
felt my earthly ties were severed, and yet the Ark in its turn refused
to admit the poor little dove.

How did these three months pass? They were fruitful in sufferings and
still more so in other graces. At first the thought came into my mind
that I would not put any extra restraint on myself, I would lead a life
somewhat less strictly ordered than was my custom. But Our Lord made me
understand the benefit I might derive from this time He had granted me,
and I then resolved to give myself up to a more serious and mortified
life. When I say mortified, I do not mean that I imitated the penances
of the Saints; far from resembling those beautiful souls who have
practised all sorts of mortifications from their infancy, I made mine
consist in simply checking my inclinations, keeping back an impatient
answer, doing little services to those around me without setting store
thereby, and a hundred other things of the kind. By practising these
trifles I prepared myself to become the Spouse of Jesus, and I can
never tell you, Mother, how much the added delay helped me to grow in
abandonment, in humility, and in other virtues.

[49] Joel 2:19.

[50] Imitation of Christ, III, xxiv. 2.

[51] Isa. 65:15.

[52] Apoc. 2:17.

[53] 1 Cor. 4:5.

[54] Matt. 5:13.

[55] Tit. 1:15.

[56] Montmartre–the ”Mount of Martyrs”–is the hill whereon St. Denis,
apostle and bishop of Paris, was martyred with his two companions in
the third century. It was a famous place of pilgrimage in medieval
times, and here St. Ignatius and the first Jesuits took their vows.
Under the presidency of Marshal MacMahon, the erection of the
well-known Basilica was voted in 1873 by the French Chamber of Deputies
as a national act of reparation to the Sacred Heart. [Ed.]

[57] Cemetery.

[58] Cf. Cant. 7:1.

[59] Office of St. Cecilia.

[60] Luke 12:32.

[61] Luke 22:29.

[62] Cf. Matt. 20:22.

[63] Luke 24:26.